


whistling through these driftwood bones

by lady_peony



Category: The Tempest - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5445389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Will you teach me?</i> you had asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whistling through these driftwood bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Violsva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/gifts).



> Treat for Violsva
> 
> Prompt: Miranda's life growing up and exploring the island. How much does she know about her father's magic, and how does it affect her?

Your father's beard has white inching into the red. Red and white, like the well-loved board resting between you both. 

_Will you teach me?_ you had asked. 

Father twitched a hand and the bowing courtiers around you melted like candle wax, their murmurs for your happiness fading into cavern walls. He had smiled at your words. 

_What gift shall the young Duchess ask for today?_

You twirled once like the ladies you had glimpsed moments before, slipped to the nook by the north-facing wall. Placed a hand on a spine that you could not read. The leather of the book is smooth, pages thick and unworn by time or salt.

_Yesterday, I heard—your servant, your spirit—playing,_ you begin. 

_Only a test of him, daughter. Were you frightened?_

You shook your head. More dismayed by the intemperate sky, more than afraid. You had planned to visit the nesting cormorants, hunt for pearls among mud-dwelling things. Thirteen in your hands now, same as your years, tucked away in a wooden box with a black pebble, a sea serpent's luminous scale.

_Was there another matter that troubles your mind? You may speak._

_If a storm stirs on nature's whim, how could one bring forth Salacia's smile? Would not the fish of the deep and the feathered creatures fear such frightful noise and light? Can magic not keep them safe as well?_

Father's brow creased. _You are of my blood, my daughter, but there are other things you may learn. Things to serve you in places greater than this._

You draw in your breath, stepping back from the shelf. Where else would you go, where else would you live but _here_ with the mangroves, the calling gulls, the pearls. 

Your father stands, strolls at a steady pace towards the books. He reaches his fingers between the tomes and draws out a board. You had seen him with it before, accompanied by a gilded box and the curious-looking figures dwelling inside it. 

_Instead of ruling the waves, would you try your hand at ruling a kingdom?_

Father explains the figures, divides them to their proper places. 

Your first charges are clumsy, stilted. It does not take long before your people are besieged on every side. Father smiles without malice as a finger pushes the rook to its place. Five squares apace from your end.

You stare at the field. If you had a storm's breath, you could scatter those enemies. There are too many to topple, too many to evade. 

You move your hand to the board, to its edge. It turns at your will. Your king burns, pale bone now emblazoned crimson. 

_The pieces before you are the ones who fight for you._ You withdraw your hands to your lap, fold your fingers over each other. _Was that not what you taught, at the beginning?_

Father's look flickers rapidly for a moment, from a sour twist of lip to a rush of pride, settles at last to an odd resignation. 

_An admirable move from an admirable mind._

 

_

 

Your mother was wise. Well-loved. Fair in looks and heart. 

So father says. He speaks of her in passing, mentions her love of watching the yearly _jocs florals_ or her skillful hand at Trappola, the leftward curl of her smile when she won. 

He tells stories too. Not all are about her. The tales, both magic and not, overlap between your lessons and Father's books, spilling between the burnt scent of new spells and the bundles of dried marjoram overhead. 

_Did you know your mother, spirit?_

A wind—something that feels like wind, something which smells more like new rain than salt—rushes past the top of your hair. _I did not._

You close the book in your lap.

_Who taught you your magic?_

A rattling whisper of stones. Then, a handful of sand, floating in the air before your eyes. 

_Count these grains, if you can. My mind remembers more seasons than this, if each were a day. Who taught you to sleep? To dream? So it was with me, with magic._

The sand drops.

A sibilant crackle rises, sputters somewhere from your left. You turn to the sound of wood clattering into a pile on the opposite side of the room, the expression of its bearer nettled with distemper.

_Would Caliban know? Know of magic?_

The answer stirs the air, dust parting in sunlight on the tail of faintly trilling echoes. _He cannot tell you, unaccustomed as he is to mortal tongues._

Caliban makes a gesture at the air, growling in a speech you cannot understand. 

Father comes in, asking after your studies as he does. You turn your eye from the sunlight, from the fire, hissing sparks making merry with Caliban's muttering when a piece of wood drops out of hand.

Later perhaps, there may be other things you can learn. A word for a word. A spell for a spell.

 

-

 

The birds have stopped flying. 

You stand on your tiptoes. The sky gleams, a silver shroud behind their hook-curved beaks, their wings. A screech rips past your ears and you drop down to dig your heels into the sand, grains damp on your bare soles.

The wind turns. Scrapes along your shoulders, up the swell of your cheeks. Salt, salt and restless frost tumbles into your lungs. It withdraws after another moment. 

You look up again. Not a single feather disturbed.

Nine, you count. Eleven. Thirteen. Each unmoving in the air, each dark as your hair. Their wings, spread as they are, cast faint lacy shadows, forming a near-perfect circle around your feet. 

The shadows grow fainter before your eyes. You should go back. Father would not like it if you dallied too long come evening. 

Still you stand there. Just a little longer.

Your hand rises and you stretch your fingertips. Further up. Almost close enough for one to perch on your palm, should you wish. There is nothing to your eye in that space, nothing which tethers them. The wingtips of the lowest one nearly brush against the wingtips of its cousin and you reach higher.

There! Something like a heaviness of cloud. You close your fingertips. It nearly slips past you, a fleeing gasp of silk, so you tighten your hold and pull it away.

Screeches of a different kind slice through the air. A rush of flaps, after, loud as heartbeats. 

Should you have kept one behind, you wonder. 

You see no shadows now. Nothing but sand and a spread of feathers, dark-shining like young embers. 

 

_

 

The courtier is thin, like the trees clinging sideways on the cliffs, limbs grasping up in search of water. His clothes, as fine as any of the other guests, only have the unfortunate effect of contrasting with the hollowness of his cheeks. 

It is merely a small fete tonight, you were told. For you, for your husband. For your family. You had watched Father move across the room in good humor and gleaming silk, laughing agreeably at every greeting received, witty or not. 

The courtier before you bows. Not arrogant, this one. More practical-minded than some according to reputation. Cesario? Yes—Cesario, he was called. A fifth son. His family name is held with no small regard in Genoa, as respected as much as their famed ships. 

Neither bow nor sail have rippled from their ports for a time now. 

Count Cesario murmurs some forgettable pleasantry, hand offered up for the honor of a dance. 

Ferdinand, your husband, your Duke, glances over from the west side of the ballroom, his spine drawing up slightly. 

A string of pearls shifts around your throat as you dip your head towards the Count. As your chin lifts, you also lift your lashes to the direction of your husband's eyes. His posture eases a breath, and he only looks at you a moment longer before turning back to speak with Gonzalo. 

"Ah, but if you had a chance to visit my city, your Grace!" Cesario says. "You would not have any words to describe its beauty."

You smile, feeling the left side of your lip curl upwards like rising smoke. "If it is as beautiful in truth as you say, I believe I would have no lack of words to praise it."


End file.
